Phantom
by Glyphron
Summary: For now I find. The Phantom of the Opera is there! Inside my mind... A Dragon Age and Phantom of the Opera AU crossover, with more twists and turns and the shadow of magic, both good and bad. Here is the glory of fame and love, riddled with obsession and even possession. (Couldn't add Hawke twice for sub pairing)
1. Act 1 Casting

Already, they are late. The afternoon is early, sunlight peeking from sterling clouds to dust over the city in hues of lemon and gold. Streaks from a paint brush administered from the heavens. Every which way, cobblestone streets are filled with merchants and towns folk, all vying to get somewhere. Lords and Ladies. Scoundrels and beggars. All on the move, wandering. The great buildings of Kirkwall, France, looming like cliffs to a canyon overhead. Shadowing those who shelter here from the glory of Sol.

Orsino 'tsks' as he glances back down the lane. Displeased by the manners of his coming company. Rudely, he has been kept waiting. It is then, as though beckoned by his scold, that the carriage he seeks lurches into view. Pulling up to the Theater's shining marble steps. The driver tugs at the reins to halt the pair of fine dark horses that jostle the bits in their mouths. And, promptly, he leaps to the ground to open the door and help his passengers to step down from the coach.

What they lack in refinement, the pair of gentlemen that greet him make up for in flair. One a well muscled and stout man, his blond hair pulled into a half pony tail, no hair out of place and a well loved staff in his hand. Bianca, as it was dubbed. The other is a rather tall man with brown hair kept short, and his face clean shaven. Both were pale in complexion with hazel eyes, and both were dressed in expensive suits, sleek and well fitted. Orsino had taken notice of their class and disinterest in timely arrivals during their first business discussions at the local pub. A fact that should be remedied at the first presentable opportunity. As much as the public appreciates such displays of wealth and style, it will not do them well to be the last to show up for set appointments.

Patience at an end, he wastes no time of guiding them into the halls within.

A song reverberates throughout the whole of the establishment, sent to ricochet. The stage boasting a flurry of activity off of every wall. Painted faces, glitter, dazzling costumes, massive props, all swirling into one another in a fantastical presentation that lures the mind's attention to it all. Breathing life into the imagination and raising illusions into reality. Music runs wild like fire through the air. Racing to every corner. Velvet seats rimmed with gold create a sea of thrones for an audience, and the perches all adorn sculptures of writhing sirens.

Behind the scenes, dancers prepare for their turn, no more still than the action that is visible. Ladies knead their slippers in a box of chalk dust, splashing them with ghostly white to their rustic red color. Stage hands bustle about, altering effects and lighting. Inspiring further awe in their precision. Vying for perfection with every plot. And the complexity is intimidating to those unexperienced in the ways of production.

Orsino cuts through all of the intricate glamor and delights, calling attention from the performers to himself. Much to the dismay of the conductor. He voices his frustrations outright, his voice thick with Scottish accent.

"I am trying to run a rehearsal, gentlemen..."

"Sebastian, please, I have an announcement to make. I will have you back to your rehearsal shortly."

His blue eyes flash with irritation, but he stands down.

"I know there have been rumors of my impending retirement," Everyone moves to gather round, "I've come to put those rumors to rest."

He stands silent a moment, the gray in his features suddenly stark in the stage lights. Fogging over his lively voice.

"They are all true..."

Another pause and there is the accompanyment of murmurs as the diva smugly taunts the others with a flaunt. She had told them as such.

"I would like to introduce to you the gentlemen who will be taking my place as the owners of the opera house. Messere Varric, and Messere Donnic. As you may have heard, they recently made it big in the junk business-"

Varric leans in close to Orsino muttering, "Scrap metal, actually."

His short height does not quite make it to Orsino's shoulder, but his sturdy bulk is no less respectable. Orsino continues on without correction, none the less.

"I'm sure they will keep this place in top form and see you through many performances."

Varric and Donnic both give a slight bow of the head.

"And we are deeply honored to introduce our patron. Viscount Chagny." Announces the latter.

Their investor steps forward to make an appearance. And amber eyes capture his image as Hawke and Merril breach the stage, at the ready among the dancers. A man crowned in youth, his skin tanned by the sun's embrace. His hair as silver white as frost in the hills during winter's chill. And eyes, green, like the fronds of a fern or leaves swept off within a storm.

"It's Fenris," Hawke breathes in wonder, "Before my father died... At the house by the sea."

A smile lights her face in warmth at the memories.

"I guess you could say we were childhood sweathearts. He called me Little Mari."

"Oh! Marianna, he's so handsome." Merril coos.

"I am honored to support all the arts. Especially the world renowned, Opera de Polpulare." Chagny states, his voice deep and gruff with power and thought.

The diva approaches to greet him with a little curtsey. Her hair waves down her neck, glossy black like raven feathers. Her soft skin is caramel in color, and her eyes a sweet chocolate. Her gown leaves her bosom exposed and hugs her lucious curves that she displays with pride.

"Ah, this is Lady Isabela. Our leading saprano for five seasons." Chimes Orsino.

A few cheers are cast out for her ego. Cut off by a sharp, "ahem." The trio turn their attention toward the sound, Isabela's male counterpart.

"Messere Castillon."

He bows deeply, while cheers are thrown his way in turn. He is a rather average man, with blond hair and a foreign accent. His charm residing in his sensible nature.

"I apologize," Fenris begs his pardon, "I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal. I shall be here this evening to share your great triumph."

He turns to depart, Sebastian calling for the cast to take up where they left off at his back. Fenris passes Hawke without so much as a glance as he exits, and her irises downturn in sorrow.

"He wouldn't recognize me..." She mulls.

"He did not see you!" Merrill counters.

Madame Elthina guides Varric and Donnic away from center stage afterward, dancers filling their places. Hawke is called from her misery by the musical cue that brings her forth to perform.

"We take particular pride in our ballet." Elthina states.

Both men are nodding with approval as the women flit and leap about with grace. Well disciplined in every move they swing across the floor. Balanced in their poses and lovely as swans. Varric takes notice of Merrill, expressing appreciation.

"She is my 'daughter'," Elthina insists, despite the evident lack of relation.

Where Madame Elthina has brunette hair like oakwood, Merrill's hair is dusky black. Her eyes more dolled and ivy green with flecks of gold, as opposed to the rain cloud gray of Elthina's. And, although both were fair women, their complexions differed. An adopted child, no doubt.

"And what of her?" Varric points with his beloved cane, "An exceptional beauty."

The ballerina indicated is a young star, her short hair bright as the summer sun. Her flesh very fair, and dainty form well curved and defined. With eyes like sunset over the horizon, beaming full of passionate fire.

"Marianna Hawke. She has promising talent."

"A Hawke! Any relation to the famous musician?" Donnic questions incredulously.

"His only surviving child," she confirms, "Orphaned at a young age when she came to live and train in the dormitories. I think of her as a daughter also."

The scene finishes with gusto, and both men are fairly impressed. Smiling at the potential that surrounds them. Their pleasure is brought, swiftly, to confusion. Isabela has decided to put the new gentlemen in charge through their paces, stir a bit of trouble. An unexpected uproar of drama.

"I hope," she huffs to Orsino, "the audience is as entertained by dancing girls as your new managers. Because I will not be singing."

With a turn on her heel, she makes a fuss about leaving. Beating her hips side to side with accentuated care as she walks away from them. Varric and Donnic puzzle over what it is they have done, staring after her. Lost in the riddle presented in this game.

Orsino encourages them to grovel, secretly amused by the mischief. He knows her character, is aware of her devious nature. Something his replacements will have to come to understand on their own. And he watches the scene unfolding with a spark to his eyes.

They serenade her with compliments, even worship. She plays hard to get but greedily devours each remark with a triumphant spirit. Entertaining their pleas for a personal debut with a hidden ecstasy. And, eventually, she agrees when satisfied with their tributes.

On the march back to center stage, Donnic mutters an inquiry as to the reason Orsino is retiring. To which Orsino smirks, and scoffs.

"My health."

Within moments, Isabela is in position. She stands within the glow of golden light, the jewels of her outfit shining in glory. Music streams out from the piano and she begins her melody, tempo rising. It progresses well until a painted scene on canvas falls from above. Pinning her beneath it's weight on the stage floorboards. Merrill whispers, in fear, of the Phantom from where she stands with Hawke. Both seeking a glimpse in the rafters above. It sends the other dancers into shrieks of panic.

Donnic demands who is up there and a stage hand, Samson, replies. His redbrown hair is mussed, dark circles making a mask over his eyes. And the film of sweat glossing his reputation as a drunkard.

He claims, with assurity, he was not at his post, and there was no one else there except himself. Musing that, if there were, the 'blighted bastard' must be a ghost. A comment that unsettles nerves all around, but only earns a bemused disregard from Varric and Donnic alike.

Beneath his perch, an envelope sealed with a crimson wax skull has fallen. An item retrieved by Madame Elthina, who breaks it open to view the scribed letter inside.

"These things do happen..." Varric hums defiantly.

"For the past three years, yes. These things do happen," Isabela answers coldly as she struggles up from her misfortune, "And, did you stop them from happening? No!"

Her wrath is a blaze that cannot be sated no matter how much it burns. She storms off to collect her finery and her dignity, leaving without a look back their way. No flirty wag to her waist this time.

"Amateurs." Castillon quirks, and follows suit.

Orsino offers his sympathy, "Good luck to you. If you need me, I shall be abroad."

Sebastian gives a sigh in exasperation as the man trudges off to his less frantic future, now more than certain they are doomed. He is not the only one among their companions. The entire Theatre seems at a loss for hope, and terribly spooked.

Varric questions the conductor if she will return and only gets a shrug in reply. He nearly paces in his scramble to devise a plan, tapping 'Bianca' nervously. Elthina takes to his side, boasting the note in hand. She calls attention to it, less than disdained over the reaction it garners.

"Maker! You're all obsessed!" Donnic chides.

She recites her findings in spite of it, slow and deliberate.

"He welcomes you to his opera house. He commands you leave box five open for his personal use and expects his salary forthright."

They gawk at her in disbelief.

"Salary!"

"Messere Orsino used to give him several thousand franks a month," she informs them bluntly, "Perhaps you can afford more."

This breaks their moods into upheaval. Donnic rants as he hands the paper to Varric, furious about this 'ransom.' Varric only scans the ink scrawled across the page, turning back to his partner. Donnic roars about having to cancel the show, snatching back the card and shredding it in his fists.

"Well, surely, there must be an understudy." Varric suggests.

"There is no understudy!" Sebastian shoots.

The fit of yelling that responds, centered on the concept of refunding a full house, echoes nearly as far as the diva's fervent notes had.

"Marianna Hawke could sing it for you." Madame Elthina mentions when the tempest finally loses its thunder.

Hawke spins around, ripped from her conversation with Merrill in surprise.

"She has been learning from a great tutor."

"Who?" Varric asks Marianna, voice rather gentle.

She would rather not speak of it, certain no one would believe her claims. But, she answers him none the less, deferring to his authority.

"I do not know his name..."

"Let her try." Elthina requests.

They allow her to step forward in due course. She takes place in Isabela's stead. Afraid at first, but collecting bravery as she mouths the words. And the rhythm that escapes her throat as the piano plays out the rules of her song, is that akin to a canary suddenly inspired. Her silken voice carries far and caresses the ears with a gentleness undiscovered. Securing the part for her glory.

This was only the beginning.


	2. Act 2 Angel or Demon

The music blares over the crowd, an epic ballad of emotion. Drowning the audience in the sweet imagining of a darling angel, so tender as to love without remorse. Marianna's voice gripping their hearts in a soft tune that resounds inside the deepest corners of their souls. Such a loving touch of of her vocal range.

She basks in the delicate blue beams of the stage lights, her presence powerful. Diamonds lace around her neck, drip from the piercings in her ears, and crown her hair in sparkling purity. A Glittering, silken, gown as innocent as the dress of a bride at the altar, draped over her thin frame. A starry sky and clouded moon against an indigo sky in the backdrop. Heaven. And the appeal has everyone speechless.

"We never said, our love was evergreen. Or as unchanging as the sea! But, if you can still remember, stop and think of me."

A longing smile adorns her lips in her melody, her mind pulling to days spent beside a boy she fondly remembers. A boy who is now a man and watches her as attentively as a sailor would a mermaid.

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen! Don't think about the way things might have been."

She is nearly begging his heart with her rhythm.

"Think of me. Think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days. Look back on all those times. Think of the things we'll never do! There will never be a day when I won't think of you!"

Viscount Chagny is not the only one listening to every word that flows through her mouth in such a delightful serenade. Far below the dazzled patrons, beneath their feet and notice, a shadow lurks. Bathing in the soothing lullaby, and dreaming of the lady he knows from afar. She is his light in the darkness that cloaks him. Doves flutter in his stomach a broad smile dressing his face.

There is a pause for another musical solo, the orchestra taking its turn to voice the scene. Fenris is entirely caught, enchanted by the sight before him. Disbelief howling amidst the trumpets and violins in his ears. Could it be?

The audience cannot keep from applause, even if it is too early and the piece is not yet done. And, all at once, Chagny cannot bear to sit for another moment longer, his heart racing. He stands from his place in his box, and shouts a praise to her. But her eyes never break from ahead, from the audience, and he swiftly leaves the perch. Unable to be still, he walks about in the foyer, pacing. Thinking on her and all that has been.

"She may not remember me, but I remember her..." he murmurs, smitten.

"Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade. They have their seasons! So do we," the song follows after his back like a ghost to haunt him.

"But, please promise me that, sometimes, you will think," Her voice toys with the scales as she voices the last two lyrics. Climbing and plumeting as they dance in her throat, "Of me!"

A standing ovation is in order. And she accepts it graciously as a stage hand sneaks off to a carriage waiting outside. Isabela is sprawled alluringly within. Her brow quirks in wonder and surprise at the news brought to her, a competitive spark glowing in her cocoa irises.

The whole of the Theatre breaks into celebration in the wake of a disaster averted. Bottles of wine are shared, the cast all abuzz with socializing and placing their opinions. Varric and Donnic mingle in their company, rather pleased with their clever solution. Costumes are still on display, make up still vibrant on all the faces. A mass of people to part and struggle through as Merrill goes in search of Hawke.

Marianna kneels in a room above all the noise and the partying actors, lively for her sake. With a careful wave of her hand, she lights the candles in the room with her magic. A well kept secret since her very birth. Humbly, she leaves them to flicker, bowing her head and clasping her hands to pray over a beloved portrait of her father. An angel comprised of pastel stained glass her vigilant protector.

Merrill comes to sense the place her friend has run off to. Knowing it is a favorite retreat for her. A place of refuge and shelter from the dangerous world and future. Merrill wanders up the steps, calling her by name.

Hawke lifts her face at the ominous chanting that quietly echoes through the room. Not the voice of Merrill, but a familiar voice who's owner she has never seen, but that she dreams of when she sleeps. A spirit of the Fade, perhaps. But she believes it to be more than that, more than just another whisper brought by her abilities.

"Brava, brava, bravissima..."

Her name then washes over the ceiling, a whisp of sound. Only to vanish as Merrill comes upon her.

"I thought you would be hiding here, Marianna," she smiles bright, "Really, you were perfect."

She brushes a hand to Hawke's shoulder, warm and kind.

"I wish I knew your secret. Who is your great tutor?"

Marianna meets her eyes, voice lowering into a hushed reverence.

"Merrill, when you're mother, Lady Elthina, brought me here to live... I would come here alone often to light a candle for my father. A voice would come down from above, and sing throughout my dreams."

She takes a deep breath, quivering at the thought.

"My father told me as he was dying, that he would send a winged angel of music to watch over me."

"Marianna, do you truly believe that? Do you think the spirit of your father is guiding you?"

"Who else could it be? If it were a demon, it would have tried to conquer me long ago." Hawke assures her.

She wants to believe in a greater good, and not the warning of temptation.

"It must be."

Merrill offers an empathetic embrace, "Maybe it is, Hawke. Maybe you're right."

With a pull at her arm, Merrill tows her away back downstairs. Snuffing the candles with a flick of her own wrist as they exit.

"Come, they're celebrating for you, you know. Besides, you should change out of that costume."

Faithfully, she walks with Marianna to the diva's former dressing room. Finding them on the way, Elthina takes to their sides, beating back the tide of enthusiastic fans with stern refusals to let them dote. She presses Hawke into the chamber, slipping in behind and swiftly closes the door for her privacy. Leaving Merrill to keep guard until the mass leaves for their coaches.

All about the quarters, roses of appreciation are on display. Possible suitors hoping to win her affections for their interest. A mirror casts her reflection across the way. And the wallpaper whimsically dons pink with floral patterns. A royal welcome to a new princess of the opera house.

"You did very well," Elthina praises, placing a rose in her hands, "He is pleased with you."

Hawke knows she speaks of the Phantom, inspecting the rose that is red like blood and bound in black ribbon.

Madame Elthina leaves her to change, aiding her daughter in keeping intruders at bay. The fuss dies down quickly enough as she drops the rose down at a table, and begins to work free from the heavy finery clothing her. Misplacing the jewelry and accessories, and relieving her waist of the corset she is entrapped within.

With the halls now emptied of adoring admirers, Fenris summons the courage to pay her a visit. In silence he stalks away towards the dressing room, getting stumbled upon by both Varric and Donnic who greet him with vigor and offer to present Miss Hawke to him. Should he like to meet their new talent.

He dismisses their offer, "Forgive me. Gentlemen, if you would not mind, this is one visit I should like to make unaccompanied."

He flashes a forlorn upturn of his lips, nostalgia written across his features. Then, turns, thanking them, and disappears into her room.

"It seems they've met before," Varric muses swinging Bianca to rest against his shoulder.

"Yes." Agrees Donnic.

Inside her presence resides, rather unaware of his. Oblivious to her surroundings and keen on thoughts plying to the inner hollow of her skull. Mind chasing dust motes and removing cobwebs spun to trap the years long since behind her. Keeping them from aching her heart with their lures.

He shares with her this ritual of recollecting. And for a moment the present falls away to another time and another place. A fairy tail darker in undertones than any would have guessed.

Fenris had another name once. Leto. His mother had named him Leto and his father must have approved. He would not know. The man died before he was old enough to bear a memory of him. Not that it would have mattered if he had lived long enough to build a history together with his son. Fenris would not be able to call up those times, even if he wished it.

His mother had fallen ill, and his sister, Varania, had spent most of her time beside her. They had stayed with an aunt who looked after their mother's ailing health and raised Varania to become a proper young lady. Meanwhile, he had remained in a house empty of his family. Under the care and tutelage of a man who was meant to shape him into a valliant young master, worthy of his inheritance when he became of age. This man, Danarius, defiled their namesake, nothing more than a treacherous usurper.

He beat and abused Fenris, day after day. A mage, he had used his power to instigate fear within the household, so that no one would tell. His reign went unquestioned. His violent outbursts would leave terrible injury. And, often times, Fenris would think he was dying.

The first incident was an attempt to kill the boy, and therefore take charge of the wealth and land. His father, hopefully misguided, had trusted him to be a caretaker of his family. And, should the worst come to pass, appointed him the final heir should his son fall. His plot failed, but left Fenris without memory, devoid of a past at the age of seven.

'Fenris', the very name was first given to him by that horrid man. And, Viscount Chagny would be more than pleased to discard it, if not for special circumstance.

A maid who pitied him stowed away with him to a safe haven. A place the helpless would go to seek aid. A manor in the country side, overlooking a stretch of beach not far from his own home. And, there, was a man who secretly ran a clinic in his cellar. Using his magic to heal the sick and mend the broken. Fenris was brought into his care after the 'accident' and revived from the brink of death.

As he was brought there many times to recover from his beatings by the maid after, his treatments were administered by the man's daughter. Who sought to follow in his footsteps as a healer. Fenris was the only name he could come to call himself by at first, forgetful of who he really was. A wound that could not be remedied and that is what she called him.

In light of his foul torture, he did not trust magic at first. Even beneath the tender hands of his healer. But, it was a war he could not win, waged against her charm and patience. That sweet and loving little girl never faltered, and never swayed from caring for him. She breathed hope and life into his body, stifling the hurt and helping him to build a will to fight. Which kept him alive throughout the many years under Danarius' hold.

Eventually, Fenris gained the strength to rise up and destroy the monster who threatened his family. Unfortunately, by then, his mother had passed and his sister was now estranged. Opting to stay with their aunt rather than coming to live with him. And that beacon of love that was the little girl he had created his entire world around, had been lost. Her father had left this life, leaving her with no one. And she was taken far away not long after he had come to feel for her so dearly. Forcing him to face the assaults without his healer for a long time, but the effects of her nurturing keeping him onward. Morphing into the valor that won him his freedom from such oppression.

Throughout life, after he had taken up the title that was rightfully his, everyone else still called him by a name that should have meaning, but did not. And his acceptance of the name that he prefers, was brought upon by her interpretation of the sound alone.

"Little Mari once asked, am I a collector of wayward souls or lost children of the Maker?" He speaks softly.

She perks straight in her chair, like a flower saved from wilting.

"Fenris," she breathes in shock, familiar and wonderous.

"Perhaps Little Mari has a purpose that goes unseen."

She turns to him like a bloom to sunlight, hailing his approach with warm reception.

"The walks by the tide as you began feeling better. Or the times father would play his violin to lift the spirits of his patients."

"The stories you helped me to read. Tales of fairies and mysterious beasts in the wilds." He adds, drawing close.

He crouches beside her, burning in her amber eyes which are never cold.

"What I love most, Little Mari once said, are all the tales of the angels, gathering to sing to me while I sleep in my bed."

He reaches out to hold her, cradle his rediscovered treasure.

"You sang with a virtue to match any angel."

He releases her with reluctance, catching her eyes on his once more, a decisive smirk at his mouth.

"And now we go to supper."

"I... Can't..." She frowns.

"I shall not keep you out late," he stands, moving to the door, "I shall order for my carriage. Change quickly Little Mari."

"Fenris, no."

He darts through the door none the less. Set on taking her with him to cherish their reunion.

"Fenris, wait!" She calls after.

But, he is already gone.

Hawke did not tell him of her convictions concerning the angel of music. Or how she has been visited, and that he is a strict teacher who will not allow such roaming. It would be a sensitive topic that would make him fearful of demons and her safety. She did not want him hurt in an escapade to rescue her from a benevolent spirit in his misconceptions.

Marianna hurries to change as she was asked. Not wanting to part and lose touch with him again. Perhaps, one night would not offend. But, as she ties her shawl about her shoulders, the candles die out and she is chided in melodious pursuit.

"Ignorant boy, this slave of fashion. Basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor. Sharing in my triumph!"

Hawke quakes in fear and awe, uncertain if, truly, this angel is as it appears. She desires to see a luminous shepard, but fears finding a dark damnation instead.

"Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me," she chimes back in tune, as has been their way since she came to live here, "Angel, my soul was weak. Forgive me. Enter at last, angel."

If she sees him, her fears can be laid to rest. She can be certain and no doubt can take her. She knows it.

"Flattering child, you shall know me. See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror. I am there inside!"

She turns to her reflection to see another overlap hers.

His appearance does not look so frightening, even as he is clothed in a black coat, accented with arcane feathers. His red gold hair secure within a pony tail and a mask over his eyes. White and not foreboding. There are no horns, nor is there the rift of dark magic in his presence. Her fears begin to lose their hold and she steps close to the glass.

Fenris returns, trying the handle to the door and finding it mysteriously locked. He calls to Marianna, but no answer calls back. His concern vastly grows. He can hear movement beyond the door, but no reply echoes to him no matter his cries. And he cascades into panic.

Hawke is so enraptured in the image, she neglects to answer. Taking the hand that reaches through the mirror frame, and letting it coax her into the silvered glass, crossing through as though it were a portal. She leaves the world behind to follow the creature that has been with her for so long.

He leads her through a maze, through vaults and dusted dungeons. Marianna begins to piece together an idea of unfathomable power, something that shatters reality beneath her footfalls. Her angel and the Phantom that inspires terror at the opera are one and the same. She does not flee from this curious situation, but commits to the desire to investigate. Just who was this masked man? And was he truly angelic or demonic? Someone needed to find the truths everyone else balked at. Marianna tries to be brave.

He brings her to his retreat, his keep, clearly. And promptly attempts to bedazzl her with fantastical wonders in the form of trinkets and works of art. She is indeed fascinated by the strange objects found at every turn. He softly lulls her with a far more peaceful rhythm as they explore. One gentle to her nerves and soundly affectionate.

"I have brought you. The seat of sweet music's throne. To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music. Music."

He stirs the fade in his movements, she can feel it with his every step. It may not be twisted, but, magic is within him.

"You have come here. For one purpose and one alone. Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me to serve. And to sing. For my music. My music."

There is more meaning behind the words sing and music than physical sound. She senses the depth as they slip from his tongue. An awareness of her prowess, a sense of the Fade flowing within her like a rushing river. The other realm that gifts magic, and to mages does sing. A pitch ever heard whether awake or asleep that never is silent. Reverberating in their minds forever.

The melody changes, more sultry in tone. A strange entertainment to her fancies.

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination. Silently the senses, abandon their defenses. Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor. Grasp it, sense it. Tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling, light. And listen to the music of the night."

She is swept into dancing with him, intruiged by this strange new universe that has swallowed her up.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams. Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before! Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar. And you'll live as you've never lived before."

So much has happened in one day, and she leans her weight into him feeling exhaustion start to mount. The pressure buckling her at the knees.

"Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it. Secretly poses you. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind. In this darkness that you know you cannot fight. The darkness of the music of the night."

He supports her, bracing her up unfailing.

"Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be! Only then can you belong to me."

She collapses at last, overwhelmed by all the change that has been brought to her door. By unsurity and the complexity of so many events unfolding at her feet.

Anders, as his long lost name used to be, does not let her hit the floor. He lifts her in his arms and carries her to a bed cushioned with velvet. Letting her rest without reserve. Sympathetic to her state of mind, so lost and confused. He too, was once a healer, and would not tax her health with strain.

With care he presses a kiss to her brow, loving her with the same depth Fenris does. Here in this underworld, he has been naught but a prisoner. So alone and lost himself, and often supressed by a secret that marrs him still. And, in his solitude, only one voice has ever answered his call. And it was the cry of yet another mage too. Then, for the first time in his existence, he was not all by himself. A shadow incapable of touching the reality, of touching others. She is his window to the world, his archway to paradise. And he is happy to have her here with him now, even as she sleeps.

He leaves her in peace to dream as she wills. Hoping in the corners of his mind, it is of him she is dreaming.


	3. Act 3 Betrayal

Morning light peeps through the windows, filtering into the halls of the theatre. A faint silver in color, fogging the path from the dorms. Merrill sneaks to the dressing room, unsettled with her every step. Marianna never returned to their living quarters, never made it to her bedside. And Merrill fears the worst. Her search for Hawke begins in the last place she saw her 'sister.'

She had found the key, discarded on a table in the near by foyer. Recognizing it, she had taken it with her to the door. She enters quietly, whispering Marianna's name. Wishing with every breath there would be a response. But silence blankets everything around her, and Merrill begins to feel dread reckoning in her shadow. She does not abandon the chase even so.

As she wanders deeper into the chamber, she comes to note that something is not right with the mirror. It is not as it appears. It thrumms with an energy that starts her skin into goose bumps, a knowledge of what she sees piqued in her expression. It is an eluvian.

Her mother, her 'real' mother, had told her daughter all she knew about them. Marethari had taught her many things, and she had often warned Merrill of ancient relics like the eluvian before her. Her people, the infamous, wandering, gypsies, had a vast history that had been forgotten through the ages. Only a select few still remembered all that the people once were, and the magic that used to run through every gypsy's veins.

Merrill had been separated from her mother. There was a hunt to find Marethari, and the results as to where she had vanished were never clear. And she had not turned up after all this time. Thus, Merrill became Elthina's only child, a beloved daughter. Taken in after the Lady had found her as a poor child walking, lonely, through the streets. And Marianna had come to live with Madame Elthina a few years after. Hawke had become her sibling, both under the care of their proclaimed mother here in the opera house. It was certainly not the worst fate that could have befallen them.

Despite the threat of danger resounding in the form of her mother's long lost words, Merrill reaches forth her hand. Slipping it through the glass of the eluvian. She retracts it to ensure she has not been harmed, and drops the key on the vanity table, pressing fully through. Determined to find Marianna no matter what courage is required. The portal leads her to the under theatre. Passages that have been blocked off, unused for several generations.

She picks her way along cautiously, alert for anything that might be lurking. Her heart thunders in her chest, every sound spooks her into near panic. And she can't help but give a cry as some rats scamper over her feet. Taking a deep breath and moving further when she regains her composure. She only makes a few paces before a hand snags her shoulder.

She gasps, nearly ready to faint, her nerves straining to keep her from bolting. The captor swivels her around to bring them face to face. And she finds Madame Elthina looking back at her, unhappy with what she has done. Grasping her hand tightly, Elthina leads her back through the eluvian. Back to safety.

Merrill tries to explain, but a rigid look hushes her every excuse. Elthina promptly tells Merrill not to ask questions and to keep what she has seen between them. She cannot understand why, and Elthina feels sorry for her. But, Elthina will not have her daughter placed in jeaprody for her discoveries. She commands Merril never to do it again and restricts her to the theatre halls and dormitories. And Merrill submits to her mother's wishes, letting it all go as she turns her back to the room and the eluvian, and follows to greet Varric and Donnic.

Elthina takes charge in explaining that Hawke is missing, Merril keeping silent as she was told. It starts the second uproar the pair has shared since being appointed the new managers.

Beyond their reach, Marianna wakes to a music box ringing shrill and silly notes into the air in a playful song. And she is ushered into the new day still lost inside mystery. She stretches slightly, and rises to find the masked apparition that has lead her here. He is spotted writing melodies on paper at his piano just around the bend.

She draws closer to him, curious as to who has carried her off so far from home. He turns to look at her, his eyes golden, but heavily cloaked by the shade of the mask he still adorns. Ever hiding from her clarity. He turns again, away from her expectant irises, feeling excited and nervous all at once. And utterly flattered that she still bears interest in him, and is not riddled with fear.

He lets her approach, touch his face with her hands that define him further as they caress, as though her eyes are blind. It is a thrilling experience, her hands so gentle just as a healer should be. Their smooth surfaces rub ecstasy into his skin. It goes unseen, but a tear escapes, trailing across his lash and falling to the mask's ceramic cheek. And then, his veil is taken from his face and he shoves her away, covering it again with his hands. Concealing the glowing blue tendrils beneath. A visage that confesses posession by a spirit.

Against his will, that ghost breifly takes over. Lighting his eyes with the same blue and cursing her coldly. Scolding her with a wicked sneer and a thirst for vengeance seething through the host. But, Anders will not succumb, fighting back the urges of his corruption. Encouraged to hold against the waves of anger by her shaken cowering.

He claims control again, calming his voice, but ranting on how loathsome he is. Despair wracking his bones with conviction that his chance to be loved has been forsaken. Pacing with the pain as he mourns his condemnation. He pleads with her to withhold judgement, like a sinner might beg the Maker. He promises there is more to him, that there is worth.

"Marianna," he sighs under the weight of perceived rejection, "You'll learn to see the man behind the monster."

He almost weeps.

"Oh, Marianna."

She lifts from her coil on the floor and looks to him, gaining confidence again. Her face still flawlessly sweet, no darkness in the amber gems of her soul. She reaches out her hand, the mask in her grasp, undamaged. Letting him take it from her fingers without struggle and replace it over the Fade poisoned streaks. And they sit in silence for a time, allowing peace to wash over them once more.

At last, the Phantom stands looking down at her, "Come. We must return."

He straightens his coat, smoothing the feathers that had been made hagard in his outburst.

"Those two bigots who run my theatre will be missing you."

Indeed, Varric and Donnic are livid with her disappearance. Concerned for what has happened to her. They conduct a sweep of the entire establishment, only to turn up cleverly placed notes meant for each of them. With no other evidence to support a theory, they come to assume the Viscount has sent them. Refusing to even consider it a sign of the supposed Phantom. Hawke must have been swept off to spend the night with him. Perhaps, this was their idea of a joke.

Their conclusion proves false when Chagny bursts into the theatre impatient to have a word. He demands to know Marianna's whereabouts, terrified for her sake. He had only just got her back. The thought that she has now slipped from his grip is disasterous. And he has come to conclude something quite similar to their ideas, as he too holds a letter.

"How should we know?" Donnic questions back.

"I want an answer. I take it that you sent me this note."

"Of course not." Varric assures him.

"She is not with you then?" Fenris breathes hard, burdened by what is at stake.

"Of course not." Donnic repeats.

"We are in the dark." Varric confirms begrudgingly.

They take the card from his palm, and Varric reads it aloud. Tapping Bianca anxiously as he does so.

"Do not fear for Miss Hawke. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again."

"If you did not write it," Fenris glares, "Then who did?"

They are interrupted by Isabela who marches is before either man can ponder who gave the message to Chagny.

"Where is he!" She fumes.

"Welcome back," Chimes Varric sarcastically.

"I have your letter!"

She confronts Fenris, not the least bit intimidated by his intense gaze.

"A letter which I rather resent," she growls.

"Did you send it?" Donnic inquires.

"Of course not," Fenris denies.

She shoves the paper in his hands and he struggles to read the scrawl over the wrinkles and creases made in her frustration.

"Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Marianna Hawke will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place."

Isabela burns beneath her dark skin, her curves shifting like those of a snake. Her earthy eyes poised like fangs which sink, deeply, into his.

"I did not send this," he refutes again.

She twirls her back to him, flicking out the ends of silken hair with a flit of her hand. A strong musk of vanilla perfume drifting on the current of air it creates. He stares after her in irritated intrigue. Such an odd way to offer a cold shoulder. No one can tell if she is disdained or flirting.

"Far too many notes for my taste." Donnic drawls, taking place beside Isabela.

"And most of them about Marianna." Muses Varric.

Madame Elthina suddenly reappears, slightly out of breath as she steps up.

"Miss Hawke has returned."

"I hope no worse for ware."

Varric stills his tapping, and waits, hopeful, for confirmation. And Fenris shares in his hopes, holding a breath.

"Where is she now?" Donnic asks her.

"I thought it best she were alone."

"She needed rest," Pipes Merrill, appearing at her mother's back.

"May I see her?" Chagny presses with a plea.

"No, Messere. She will see no one."

Elthina insists she is not to be disturbed, fervent in her decision. She does not want Marianna to be vexed by his concern or flooded with questions as to where she's been.

"Will she sing?"

Isabela smirks with some hope of her own.

"I have a message," Elthina responds keenly.

"Let us see it," Fenris orders.

She surrenders ownership of the card in due course.

"Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance."

The Phantom listens from a concealed sanctuary as they repeat every direction he has scribed for them to know. His thoughts slinking like smoke through the air, determination set on furthering Marianna's career.

She is not a creature of darkness, a rose needs light to grow vibrant. He cannot merely steal her away and shelter her with him inside the catacombs of an old opera house. But, her secret places her in dire need of protection. Fame and riches can shield her. Their 'enemy' cannot touch someone with coin and status easily. 'They' will have to turn a blind eye to her existence, should they come across her abilities.

He fades away, a black cat in the rafters that had been stalking mice, but never caught in a glimpse by his prey.

"It's all a ploy to help Marianna," Isabela scrutinizes, "Devised by her lover, the Viscount."

Fenris offers nothing in his defense, knowing it shall do him no good. The diva is strictly convinced that it is he who is creating this charade. When, in truth, all he wants to do is make sure Hawke is safe and sound. He thinks better of simply taking Marianna far from here. She might not be content to leave this terrible drama behind, unlike himself. Not because she adores the fuss, he is well aware, but in due respect to her love of singing.

Here, she has the chance to make a name for herself, a life all her own. And not just a luxury of what he can offer her as a contender for her love. She was not one to be swayed by petty gifts, but by consideration and vera. Honesty in one's character. And as tender a flower as she is, Hawke is free spirited. She would want to prove her mettle. She would want purpose. The opera house can provide it. His wealth cannot.

There is a fit as Isabela cusses and plunders the theatre for all her lingering possessions. And the managers follow in her wake, trying to soothe her temper and slow her rampage. Leaving the Viscount to ponder over what he has power to do to help his beloved friend.

Her displeasure is drawn out long and fiesty. The hurricane of her mood turning her grace into the wild tangent of a raging sea. Her waving hair splashing about her shoulders in violent protest. Marianna's success is not a sure thing, her desire to perform could die off before they can secure another to take the role. And so, if Isabela walks away, intent on never looking back, their ship will undoubtedly sink. An incident they cannot afford.

Finally, Varric announces that Hawke will not get the lead, but the diva. He gives a nod to Donnic as he worries his staff like usual in thought. Donnic has been his business partner for many years and has often been the one to set things in motion, while Varric applies his clever mind into a plan. It seems he would like to test just how far this 'Phantom' will go, he wants to try their limits. Maybe find a way to drive this pretender out.

This settles Isabela, calming her currents of emotion and giving her what it is she wants. She does adore the crowds and the attention, the undying affections of men at her whims. Yet, she is like any siren. Her greatest weapon is her voice, next to her wit. And she truly does enjoy using its effects to enchant audience after audience with her charm. A passion for song as true as Marianna's, even if there are other motivations behind it.

The preparations are made, and they proceed as planned. Dressing the cast, and setting the stage for the battle that is to come. Everyone feels the charge of a cloud line about to break, anxious and wary.

The curtains part away to give voice to the play. The scene in view for all to see and progressing without hindrance. There are entrance bows and the music boasts gayly. There is delight and dance, humor and starlit eyes. Every motion plotted and every song placed with care. It is everything attendants can ask for. And in their eager feast in the glamor of the stage, no one sees a meddler draped in black replacing the bottle of spray for the diva's throat with a pretender. A trap to be sprung at a later time.

There is applause at the portrayed scandal of a faithless lady, Isabela, indulging in the kiss of her mute pageboy lover, Hawke. A tryst broken apart by her husband coming through the door, his replacement disguised as a maid. He is no more valliant, tapping a servant girl, Merrill, on her behind, something that earns a laugh. His attendant taken with the curves of his wife. So naughty and wonderful to see for fans of the opera.

Above their heads, a different story is playing out. Samson catches wind of the Phantom's presence and goes seeking for trouble. His intentions are to secure the act and reveal the devil that has been wreaking havoc with performances. But ends up in a game filled with taunts and twists. Nothing more than a toy in the poltergeist's claws.

The melodies continue to stream and flow, and the stage is set in more ways than one. A menagerie of wild sounds in good taste, lively and torn apart by a gruff voice from overhead. One part the host and the other the spirit in vocal range.

"Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?"

Fenris snarls from his perch there, just every bit as inclined to draw him out as the Varric and Donnic. His mockery is bait for this vermin's removal.

"It's the Phantom of the Opera," squeeks Merrill.

"It is him..." Marianna agrees, bewildered.

His position is revealed to Samson through this display, and he comes upon Anders' perch. But it is abandoned by the time he reaches it and he is forced to rethink tactics.

Isabela lubricates her throat with the spray in the fray of confusion. A habit of nerves one might suppose.

The act presumes, no sign of ending. Guests have paid to be here, and the cast must deliver. But, tragically for the diva, the false solution is taking effect, straining her voice into gasping croaks. The audience is sent into a mess of laughter, but the opera must be put on hold.

Donnic attempts to avert obvious problems and entertain them with the ballet that was to come further in. And the disaster continues. The stage hands are thrown into chaos, the dancers doing their best to keep smiles on the faces of those who watch. Sebastian does all he can to keep up, keeping the band steady, even while the action is not.

Up in the catwalks, there is a struggle mounting. Samson is no longer chasing the shadow of the fiend, but being chased. The eyes of the hunter glowing blue coals of vehemence and lethality. He dodges and weaves, but has no hope of escaping. With a shock of magical force to cut off screaming, he is tied by the throat to strangle. And then dropped, hanged, amid the ballerinas as they twirl. And panic immediately ensues as the life twitches free from Samson's body.

Fenris dashes from box five, diving through screaming revolts of mortified people. His eyes track every person he passes until he finds the only one that matters this very moment. Marianna. Caught in the stampede and trying to get away. He comes to her rescue, pulling her free from the mass and pressing her safely against a wall as the public runs past.

"Are you alright?"

She is not comforted by his appearance, trying to dart away and throwing a reply over her shoulder.

"We are not safe here!"

He takes pace at her heels, following her up and out of the turmoil to a balcony on the roof. Only then does she pause in her flight to catch a breath. He looks her over as she stands, tracing her curved edges for injury.

"We can't go back there."

Her voice sounds faint and far away.

"We must."

"He'll kill you. His eyes will find us there."

Silence blows in the wind between them.

"Maker, who is this man?" Hawke sighs, eyes alight with terror.

No longer does she want to know who has been singing to her as the angel she's always imagined. She doesn't want to learn more of the creature who poses as both a phantom and a savior. Her pity is drowning in the fear Anders did not want to inspire within her.

Fenris is still skeptical of this lurking killer, unbelieving of the concept he is paranormal while Hawke is unsure. He imagines a man. One who most definitely has a few hidden talents, much like Danarius. And an evil will to match. He looks her in the eye.

"There is no 'Phantom' of the Opera."

"Fenris, I've been there," she replies in defiance, "I've seen him. Could I ever forget that face, so distorted and twisted? It was hardly a face. Exuding such darkness."

His brow furrows, his heart heavy. Mages are succeptible to the torment of demons that try to ensnare their sanity and take it away, so they are left vulnerable. Easy hosts to lay claim to. And the way she speaks is telling him of her suffering that must be brought on by these gruesome abominations. Terrors that have somehow found a way to get to her. And this murderous pretender is their servant, sent to aid in their assault.

The line from a previous note 'the Angel of Music has her under his wing' comes into focus. He can recall all the stories Malcom used to tell her. He heard often the promises that an angel of melodies would always watch over her. An extension of his spirit and will. He used to think nothing of it. They were just sweet words to soothe a child, so he had thought. But, she had believed them, trusted them. And now someone was poisoning her with that trust.

They will have to fight much harder to have any chance of reaching her. As long as he is present, he will not let them claim her. Not this mage. Not his healer.

"Yet, in his eyes, was all the sadness of the world," she muses, losing her thoughts to the image.

They were breaching her defences by using her unfailing mercy against her. He could see it now. And it changed nothing, only gave him direction as to what he must do.

"Marianna," he takes hold of her, "No more talk of darkness. Forget these wide eyed fears. I'm here, nothing can harm you."

He wraps her carefully within his arms, warming the chill from her, aquired while standing in the nighttime air.

"He is no angel or phantom. He is but a man, corrupted and sick. He is a fake. I'm here," he repeats, "With you, beside you. To guard you. To guide you. Block these shadows from your mind. Let them be forgotten. Give them a grave to die within. Your father is gone, and cannot come back. But I am here."

"Fenris?" She speaks at his ear.

"I love you, Little Mari. And, if, perchance, you love me... Forget these devils. Push them away, keep fighting. Find me when they chase you. Let me aid you."

He tightens his embrace, constricting it and pressing her closer.

"Love me. That's all I ask of you."

"I do," she smiles gently, "I have missed you."

Fenris draws back to touch his lips to hers, reaching up a hand to stroke her bangs from her face. Neither of them are aware they are being watched by golden eyes flashing with blue like lightening. Body trembling in convulsions of misery and blood lust. All safe from their sight beneath the cowl of a pegasus wing. The statue a brace for his agonizing form. His irises trail after them as Fenris takes her by the hand and leads her gently back into the theatre.

"I have been here with you, singing for your comfort. Yet, you betray me... He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing. Just as I was."

Anders falters to his knees.

"Marianna..." He whimpers.

Tears fall, only dried by the madness swirling inside.

"You will regret this."


	4. Act 4 Masquerade

Fireworks light the sky like shooting stars bursting as they fall. Shimmering sparkles rain down, fizzling out before reaching the ground. A shower never drawn into the furrows of the earth. Or weathered by the crowd below.

It is a time for celebration, and all are in good cheer. The theatre is in chorus, lively and bright. Boasting intricate costumes all alight with glitter and jewels. Fancy stitch work and luminous fabric. And, every pair of eyes peek from the windows of a mask. Some stark, some delicate, some shiny, and some dainty. All elegant, the colors a smattering rainbow to dawn the glorious spirit of their party. Their voices a harmony to be reckoned with, heard for quite the distance down the alleys and lanes outside.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade," they prance in unison, "Masquerade. Hide you face so the world will never find you."

The dance steps are complex, but each dancer knows their place. And the enjoyment of such a display is evident in a mass of smiles.

"Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade. Look around, there's another mask behind you."

Ladies stretch their fans to flit in rhythm with their steps.

"Flash of muave, splash of puce. Fool and king, ghoul and goose. Green and black, queen and priest. Trace of rouge, face of beast. Faces! Take your turn, take a ride. On the merry go round in an inhuman race."

Dips and bows accented with turns and twirls, spinning all around the opera house.

"True is false. Who is who? Curl of lip, swirl of gown. Ace of hearts, face of clown. Faces! Drink it in. Drink it up. Until you drown in the light, in the sound. But, who can name the face?"

A slide to the left or right, a parting of the moving cast.

"Masquerade! Grinning yellow, spinning reds. Masquerade. Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you."

Partners join again and continue their prancing.

"Masquerade! Burning glances turning heads. Masquerade. Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you."

A break in uniform for solo performances.

"Masquerade. Seething shadows breathing lies. Masquerade. You can fool any friend who ever knew you."

They all fall into place once more.

"Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes. Masquerade. Run and hide but a face will still pursue you."

There is a dip forward to bring masks to mirror each other. And, among the disguises, Varric, Donnic, Isabela and Castillon, Merrill, even Madame Elthina. All taking part.

Just arriving, Fenris and Marianna breach the doors, ready to join in. His suit a dark finery bedecked in emerald hues her dress a blazing scarlet in satin. Their masks complimentary in essence. At a chain around her neck rests a ring. A testament to a near future that will keep the pair together for a lifetime. She insists on keeping it secret a while longer still, trace amounts of fear lingering in the back of her mind. Hence the reason she does not keep it around her finger. But, she is well.

The 'Phantom' has fallen silent, making no appearances for some time nor calling for her. And Hawke has vastly improved. To Fenris' relief, her terrors of darkness have all but vanished. Her thoughts on angels and ghosts quieted, abandoned. He has provided something new and much more real for her focus to hold. He has given her a world of fresh memories to cradle in her heart. Making it easier for her to let her father go and the aching loneliness that had followed. In fact, Fenris has spent all this time tending to his healer, reviving her has she had done him. And he is content to have her with him in peace, with a happy ending before them.

He takes her to dance with him among the others. Leading her merrily across the floor with fluid direction. Drinks are being passed, there are toasts and much laughter. And neither he nor Marianna can think of any better way to usher in the new year. Their hearts soaring to a perfection rarely found in the moments of life.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face so the world will never find you. Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade. Look around, there's another mask behind you. Masquerade! Burning glances turning heads. Masquerade. Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you. Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds. Masquerade. Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you."

The candles flicker out, their sparks dead. Leaving everyone lost within the dark. Hawke draws in a sharp breath, already certain of what they face. Fenris feels her tense against him and wraps a sheltering arm around her shoulders. A reminder of strength to keep her from plumeting back into the chasm he has spared no effort hoisting her free from.

Some of the wicks sputter back into a blaze, offering dim illumination as the Phantom slips into the festivities. Draining them of joy and vibrance with every step. His eyes blue sparks of hate, glowing with far more heat then the flames of the candle bras.

"Why so silent good Messeres? Did you think that I had left you for good?"

The hiss with which he speaks drip enough venom to bathe in.

"Have you missed me? I have written you an opera. Here I bring the finished score," he sneers, throwing a black leather binding down the steps.

On impact it slips the papers within about the floor. The music notes scratched upon them menacing in concept.

"Don Juan Triumphant!"

Anders draws forth a staff, one clearly meant for more than walking or display. It hums with his energy, pricking the hairs on the back of Marianna's neck. Magic, poised for attack.

"Fondest greetings to you all," his teeth bear in a smile with no mirth, "A few instructions just before rehearsal starts."

Fenris slowly slips his arm away from Hawke who is too distracted to notice. She feels a need to summon her own magic, call it forward for defense. But she is surrounded. A mage revealed is abducted to the Circle. She would be taken from the life she knows, from the arms of her lover to a relentless prison to await the end of her days. The risk is too great. Silently, he sneaks off, away from her side.

"Isabela must be taught to act," Anders growls, "Not her normal trick of strutting round the stage."

She stares at him, daggers in her eyes, but makes no quip in light of his insult.

"Our Don Juan," he continues, poking Castillon in his gut with the bladed tip of his staff, "must lose some weight. It's not healthy in a man of such an age."

He steams beneath the threat, not particularly bulky in demeanor, but holding his tongue also.

His eyes flash to Varric and Donnic, who have been inching closer with every word. Turning to boast his weapon and stilling them.

"And my managers... They must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts."

At last, it is the turn of his muse to suffer his complaints.

"As for our star," he turns to burn her with his gaze, "Miss Marianna Hawke..."

He places his staff in a hold against his back and stalks her way. Hands empty of a visible weapon, but aura still in tact.

"No doubt she will do her best. It is true, her voice is good. She knows. Though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn."

She stands rigid under his chastening. Merrill finches forward, preparing to use her own magic in Hawke's name if she must, but Elthina holds her back. Keeping her safe within her reach.

He smirks, "If pride will let her return to me. Her teacher."

The blue of an alternate will fades to dying embers, replaced by coins of gold I'm the sockets of his mask.

"Her teacher," he repeats softly.

Their eyes meet and she is witness to his misery. The suffering born of her choice to leave him behind. Her heart aches, the eyes of the man far more poor and wretched. Those irises are too gentle for the malevolence that hides under his skin, taking over despite his protests. But, in the dulling light of his eyes, she can see the exhaustion from all his effort not to let it rule him. She can see him fighting it. And she feels sorrow for the poor soul suffocating in a choke hold of a will not of him.

Fenris reappears in the distance, his sword in hand, catching sight of how close Anders stands to Marianna. Their gazes locked. He makes haste to keep her from those evil hands, pushing through the frightened patrons to reach her. To face this enemy.

The Phantom's line of sight drops to the ring tied to her neck. In that instant he is lost again. Eyes blazing azure as he rips the trinket from her throat. Shaking it in a fist before her face.

"Your chains are still mine! You belong to me!" He roars.

He sends it crashing to the floor and retreats up the steps. Fleeing from Fenris' approaching challenge. With a flash of fire he sinks within a trap door in the tiled floor at the landing, and Fenris dives after him. Dropping into the abyss before the entrance can close again.

He finds himself trapped in a ring of darkness and mirrors when he rises up from his fall. The air knocked from his lungs, but still prepared for battle. Utmost alert.

The face of his opponent flashes here, and there. He strikes out in an arching swing, missing. Again and again as the masked villain plays with him. He will not be deterred, but fares no better no matter how he strikes at the movement he glimpses. A noose is tossed at his feet. A bold inference that his end is near and Fenris knows he is at a disadvantage. He will not fall easily, but he has little hope of deciphering this barrage of tricks before the enemy makes his all or nothing move. The tactics currently superior to his, and the battlefield on the Phantom's turf.

He is grabbed at the shoulder, turning to find Madame Elthina behind him. She jerks him away from the collection of mirrors, dragging the Viscount out of danger. Then, takes him through the passages to an exit. Leading him back to the familiar halls of the opera house.

She doubles back to return to the dormitories, bidding him a good evening. But, Chagny keeps on her heels, begging her to wait.

"Please, Messere, I know no more than anyone else," she disregards.

"That is not true," he reprimands.

"Do not ask," she pleads, "There have been too many accidents."

"Accidents," Fenris scoffs, "Madame, for all our sakes, please tell me what you know."

She freezes in place with a heavy sigh.

"Very well."

They make way for a room that is safe from unwanted ears and she beckons for him to have a seat. She locks the door before joining him, taking to a chair opposite of his.

"It was years ago. There was a traveling band of Templars in the city. Members of the Circle."

She motions to old portraits, grey with dust.

"I was very young. Studying to be a ballerina. One of many. Living in the dormitories of the theatre."

She perches at the edge of her cushion in discomfort. Disturbed by her recollections.

"They sometimes send a compliment of guards and a fraction of their magi to earn coin while hunt for more mages hiding within the city. They put the mages they bring with them on display, working them to woo crowds and convince others of their cause," she explains, trembling.

"One of the mages they held captive in a small and thick barred cage. A young boy about my age. Ser Meredith, their Commander, would enter his cage and beat him until his eyes..."

She steadies herself.

"He had been possessed by a spirit, we were told, and they used him as an example. Lashing him until he lost himself to the ghost inside."

Her voice drops low. As though, if she speaks it too loud she will be subject to torture.

"Everyone left, I lingered behind. I turned for one last look at the boy. He had grabbed the whip from her hand and began strangling the Knight Commander. In her shock, she was left helpless long enough for him tho choke the life out of her. But, then... The blue left his eyes. He began weeping..."

Tears streak her own cheeks.

"I helped him to escape. I could not bear to see him caged and at their mercy. I brought here, showed him a way into the under theatre. I hid him from the world, and its cruelties. He has known nothing else of life since then, except this opera house."

She shakes her head with regret.

"It was his playground and... now his artistic domain. He's a genius. He's an architect and designer, he's a composer and well trained mage. A genius, Messere."

"But clearly, genius has turned to madness. He has succumbed to his demon. It is all that is left of him now." Fenris counters when she is finished.

His distaste is as strong as it ever was for Danarius. His only thought now, to put an end to the monter's chaos before more lives are lost. Before Hawke can be lost.


	5. Act 5 To What End

In the mists of early morning, Hawke lays awake in her bed. The expanse of her many thoughts far away from her place in the theatre. The steel gray of the dawn's light pools over her, the brightness keeps her wide awake. It stirs her spirit into restless desires, wishes never to be fulfilled. And she is left with only one option for respite.

She lifts from the matress, careful not to disturb Merrill as she passes her sister's bed. Taking with her a shawl, she hides her nightgown beneath it and tip toes down the stairs. Leaving Fenris to sleep where he keeps guard outside the dormitory door. Where she intends to, she wants to go alone. It should not put her in any peril.

She drifts out into the yard, wandering to the stables across the way.

"Messere," she greets the carriage driver.

"Where to my lady?"

"The cemetary," she answers in a short breath.

She offers his outstretched hand a small pouch of coin and turns to go back and dress in proper clothes. She dons a gown of black wool with soft black lace. Replacing the shawl with a proper cloak. She steals a small bouquet of roses from her nightstand, binding them with a red scarf.

As she prepares for her journey, the coach master is beset by a shadow as he prepares two of his horses. He is knocked in the skull by a staff, dropping him out cold on the floor. And his assailant finishes tethering the horses, posing as the driver when he is finished and pulling the carriage to the front. At the ready for the ride.

Marianna comes stepping back out, leaving Fenris behind. He should rest, she will be back soon. She climbs into the seat without hesitation. Her mind still far from where she is, and oblivious to impersonator. They pull away at a trot towards the graveyard.

Fenris happens to wake, finding the door open when his vision clears. And seeing Hawke's bed empty. He runs to a window in time to see her being taken away. He is not certain of what is happening, or if there is truly any cause for alarm. But, something does not feel right and he takes to his instinct. He darts to the stable, finding the real driver unconscious in the hay, his concerns now validated.

With haste he shakes the man back into awareness. Demanding where they've gone. The man tells him in a groan, still out of sorts. Fenris cannot waste time and leaves him to recover on his own. Slipping a bridle on one of the other horses, a strong looking bay stallion, he leaps on its back. Neglecting to saddle it before he rides off after the hijacked carriage.

Far ahead, her ride lets her out at the gate, and she steps onto hollowed ground with eyes wet and a psalm of regret welling in her throat. She does not see how the driver's eyes glare after her, even as he sets the horses off, pulling away to some other 'business.'

"Little Mari thought of everything and nothing," she whispers, "Her father promised her he would send an angel of music. Her father promised her."

She passes the headstones with a slow and painful walk. The agony of loss so very heavy.

"Her father promised her..."

A stone angel looks down on her in pity.

"He promised me..."

The next words to be uttered ring out like the toll of a church bell on the distance. Solemn and chilling.

"You were once my one companion. You were all that mattered. You were once a friend and father. Then my world was shattered."

Every step misplaces the snow carpeting the ground beneath, the cold wafting from the dead as much as from the winter clouds above.

"Wishing you were somehow here again. Wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here."

A hand brushes the monoliths of tombs as she passes. A gentle touch to show remorse for all those forgotten.

"Wishing I could hear your voice again. Knowing that I never would. Dreaming of you won't help me to do all that you dreamed I could."

Her gaze drops so far below to skeletons bare and caskets warped with time.

"Passing bells and sculpted angels. Cold and monumental. Seem, for you, the wrong companions. You were warm and gentle."

Her tears hold no comfort and no end to the well from which they are drawn.

"Too many years fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die?"

Marianna doesn't want any more. No wishes to watch fade or dreams of promises that should never have been made.

"Wishing you were somehow here again. Knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive. Teach me to live. Give me the strength to try."

She nears her destination, his resting place where his memory does everything but rest. And she crouches gently to be closer, even though they are so very far apart.

"No more memories. No more silent tears. No more gazing across the wasted years."

She places the roses to give him vibrance even in his decay.

"Help me say goodbye."

Hawke's eyes upturn to a nearby mosoleum as a melody calls out from inside. Taking her by surprise, the voice within familiar. And both comforting to her doubt as it is unsettling.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance."

She stands, growing weary of all the false pretenses passed her way with every turn. No single factor in her life steady and clear. But, shrouded from truth and left to mystery and guessing. And all these voices, all of the many ways she is directed from so many opinions tangled with one another. Contradicting and only bringing her further disdain.

"Angel or father, friend or phantom? Who is it there staring?"

Her voice gives her away, surrenders her confusion like a flag of truce for anyone to see, despite her best attempts to keep it from showing.

"Have you forgotten your angel? Too long you've wandered in winter. Far from my fathering gaze."

She is not convinced by his answer, but she is not turning away either. She remains, keeping her ground, pondering.

"Come to me," begs the voice.

She does not get a chance to decide or reply for herself. Her mind already concerned with what lies in wait, already suspicious of demons and creatures of the Fade. Of tricks being played at her expense, her faith having been stripped from her bones long ago. When this plot began twisting into maniacal turns of nonesense. But, she gets no moment to express this as Fenris comes riding up behind her on the stallion. Commanding she wait. Terrified.

'Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.' He has told her this every now and again since the day they let their old bond come back into focus. And take them to new places together. She feels regret for causing him such reckless worry. Something she had never intended.

Marianna throws a glance over her shoulder, showing her compliance. Her hesitation to move or confront what is attempting to summon her.

He jumps from the horse, drawing his sword which has been at his side since the masquerade ball. Running up to face her and placing a hand to her shoulder. Pouring his eyes into hers he warns her of a danger she already knows.

"No matter what you want to believe, this man, this thing! He is NOT your father."

She gives him a brief nod, but still wonders just what he actually IS.

Anders pounces like a wild cat upon them. Knocking Fenris away with a burst of magical force. His eyes flash a near indigo shade, his ire centered on the Viscount.

Fenris stumbles up to his feet, weathering a blow from the staff outright. Only to be shoved back again by another wave of energy.

He forces himself upright, dodging around grave stones to shield him from spell after spell, and attacking between the casts. Anders responds by swinging back with his staff to defend against the sword. The flurry of their battle wild and trailing all through the cemetary. There is much to gain and much to lose, and both are aiming to kill.

The struggle lasts for some time. When, despite a parry, Fenris takes a gash across the arm from a faint attack. Blood springing forth like a fountain, his muscles sliced into near useless capabilities. It is then that the outcome is certain to be tragic, then that spurs Hawke into her own aggression.

As a child, she was taught by her father to hone her skills. He focused her talents to healing and she has never had the need to use her power offensively. But, it is no less there and she will not stand watch a moment longer. She will not let Fenris merely succumb to death like this, or the offer of a more certain and peaceful horizon be torn away from her.

She wills into existence a halo of fire that she sets spinning Anders' way. The ring of flame growing as it moves his way until it is a brilliant twister. It pushes Anders back as he retreats from the heat, creating an opening. Her spell then dies out and Fenris takes it, giving his all with his final cut. Taking Anders' feet from beneath him, kicking his staff aside, he prepares to thrust his blade through. To impale the maleficar and end the strife and risk he presents.

But the blue behind Anders' eyes has vanished, and the golden ones that stare up at impending doom look so resigned and tired. And Marianna cannot see him dying this way, cannot see either of them falling to this violence. Cannot bear the thought herself. She cries for Fenris to stop. Reluctant, he does, pausing to hear her pleas.

She shakes her head, "Not like this."

He turns away in indecision. If he does not kill this man as he had Danarius, he knows nothing will change. This 'Phantom' will keep haunting them and chasing her. And there will be no peace or calm in the days that will follow. However, it is hard to deny Hawke's wishes. Her sanity is already freyed, straining. Starting to wear from all these games and peculiar situations she can never escape from. Should he slaughter this beast, would it cast her over the edge?

Moreover, he would not have her think less of him. He'd had no choice with Danarius, but, here he has victory and can walk away. He can resort to other possible options to being rid of this hunter. He can be the better man. Not just for her, but for himself. He defers to her desires and sheaths his weapon.

He makes his way to her. Grabbing her arm firmly but gently, and guiding her over to his borrowed steed.

It stands, bewildered, over her father's grave and she stoops to snatch up the roses as Fenris mounts. Taking from them her red sash and dropping the flowers back over her dearly departed.

When he lifts her into his lap with his good arm, she ties it around his wound, working her healing magic over it as they ride off. Leaving Anders to revel in his failure.

She hardly glances back, her mind made up. He is a creature to be pitied but one that she no longer wants to understand. She does not need to know who or what she has been facing, but needs to face it until it leaves her. Gifting her the bliss of a free life.

Under the exhaustion, the ghost rises up, tracing their trail with cold blue. Still seething strong no matter how many times it is beaten back.

"Now, let it be war upon you both."


	6. Act 6 Sacrafice

Varric, Donnic, and Madame Elthina all answer Viscount Chagny's summons to have tea at his estate. The invitation a ploy to lure them together for a discussion, safe from the ears of the theater's walls. Free from the reach of the enemy.

Each guest is greeted and led to the garden in due course. Where Fenris waits, pacing, with a distant look in his eye. And, when he sees them, his gaze grows fierce and he wastes not a moment in explaining to them the reason for their attendance. Determined to convince them to commit to action regarding the 'Phantom.'

"This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend," he drawls under the noonday sun.

"We are listening."

Varric encourages him to continue, a hand toying with a rose in full bloom at the gate.

"We shall play his game."

Elthina and Donnic shake their heads in disbelief.

"Perform his work, but remember, we hold the adavantage," Fenris assures them, "If Hawke sings he is certain to be there."

"We make certain he has no escape," Varric catches on with a light to his eyes.

"We make certain Kirkwall guards are present," Donnic adds.

"We make certain they are armed."

Fenris mutters this as he recalls the attack at the cemetary, knowing full well their opponent will not give up without a fight.

All three turn to Elthina who sways at the edge of their group, her hand to her heart. Her eyes wide with the realization of what his plan entails. Of what it could mean.

"Madame," Fenris begins, resting a hand to her shoulder as he approaches, "Everyone is in danger as long as he remains in the opera house. And I do mean everyone. Think of the risk to your daughter. And I happen to know you care for Marianna a great deal."

Her eyes fall to the ground, her face weary and her soul afraid as she reflects on these concepts as she has many times. But, yet, could never be persuaded to turn her back on the poor boy. Still, what once was just a lonely child looking for a friend to share his world with, a little one who killed once in his defense, is now only a killer who thinks nothing of disposing anyone who gets in his way. A monster not a man now.

"You tried your best, you gave him all you could. But, he has fallen from grace. We must all be committed if this is to succeed."

Fenris releases his hold, but his eyes do not part from hers. His heart silently pleading with her. She resigns to his wishes.

"Yes, Messere, I understand. I will do my best to help you capture him. I would not have Merrill be placed in such peril. Nor Hawke," she says with a nod.

"The curtain falls. His reign will end!" Chimes Donnic with high hopes.

Rehearsals begin the following week, every detail made to match the script.

Scenes are painted, props constructed. The costumes sewn with utmost care and quality. There is no effort spared or second that is wasted in preparing for the performance of a lifetime.

They make definite that their work on his writings can be heard through the whole theatre. So that Anders will know of their compliance. So that the bait is set for the trap that is soon to come. And, no incident befalls them, not a peek nor whisper of the ghost is found. Everything progresses with perfection to the night of their enactment. The whole city coming to watch.

In the final hour before it all begins, Fenris searches the the halls of the opera house for his beloved friend. He finds her in a place Merrill tells him to go. A little room high above, her refuge with the stain glass angel. She kneels praying for her father and fighting back her nerves. Her face pale with worry and stomach sick with fears.

He kneels beside her, with her, leaning close. His hand overlapping hers in a slow and deliberate gesture to reaffirm his support. To offer her any small amount of comfort she can take from the simple action, wishing he could give her more. But having nothing else he can do to calm her spirit.

"What I once used to dream," Hawke murmurs, "I now dread."

He pulls up the right sleeve of his white linen tunic, baring his wrist which boasts her red scarf tied securely there.

"You said so yourself. He is nothing more than a man. And, while he lives, he will haunt us until we are dead. We cannot have our freedom until he is gone."

She nods in her bow to the candle bra and her father's portrait. Understanding in full what is at stake, and hating every aspect of what awaits her. She loathes the end they have come to, still reluctant to so betray the man who inspired her to sing. Yet, unwilling to surrender the future she has chosen for a fate of being caged with a man twisted by possession. A man who is dangerous and may never be sated, even if she chooses him. What could she do then? People would still fall to his wrath, to death.

"I know I can't refuse. And, yet, I wish I could."

He clasps her hand and brings it to brush her banner that he wears with honor.

"Every hope and every prayer rests on you now. But... I will be here. With you through every moment, watching. I will come for you if anything goes wrong. I swear it."

He promises in solemn reverence, the ribbon he tied to himself in such a vow long before now. It is here that he shares with her his contract made in secret as a means to console and empower her.

"Please, be careful."

She brings her eyes to warm him, their amber locking in a tryst with his green.

"There is not much of a future to be had, if you are not with me. There is little reason to fight if you're not there when it is over."

He embraces her with a smile, "I will be."

Far beneath their shadows, Anders is in preparation for his part in this story he has written. Tying back his hair and smoothing the feathers of his coat. His mask of choice, a disguise of fine black leather that will keep his eyes hidden safely under, invisible to the crowd. Their gold swim in blue, but are not utterly drowning in the hollowed color. His mind strictly hoping his Vengeance will not be called forth, even though he knows what lies in wait for him.

He is aware of the guards and their plot to destroy him, knows it was coming all along. It was only a matter of time before he returned the favor. But, Anders himself, hopes that his counter measures will simply force everyone away and not result in further tragedy.

Anders has no intention of killing innocent people. He has never wanted to kill. But the spirit within him has twisted into a darkness he cannot escape. A blackened wraith forged by injustice made by the Templars who show no mercy. And now it hunts, it maims, it leaves bodies behind in its wake. Dispatching all who get in their way and driving him, slowly, to madness. It should never have become this way. But, it cannot be reversed now, Anders' control over himself is waning. And that gives his demon full reign.

He believes in one concept above all others. He has faith that, if he can only make Marianna accept him, her light will burn away the shadows poisoning his heart. Her kindness is a miracle found rarely in the people of the world. She has aided him before, even unknowingly, to get a hold of himself. She has soothed the tide of anger with her echoes of his calls. And, in her eyes, his loneliness is banished, his hurts relieved. He has only ever wanted to live and she has become the focus of that life for which he is reaching. A symbol of his ideal future. One that vastly mimics that which she plans to have with the Viscount.

He cannot give her all of the same things Chagny can offer her. But, he still has much to give none the less. If only she could see the wonders he would gift to her without reserve. He is certain she would find his feelings sufficient and delight in the beauty he sees. Theirs would not be a wasted life.

Music erupts through the air, his cue. He stows away through the passages, the time has come.

Fenris finds himself sitting rigid in a box as the music begins, the Captain of the guard at his side. A woman of fiery red hair and bold strength known as Aveline. A close friend of Donnic, there are rumors of a budding romance between them. She is more than ready to set her guardsmen against the 'Phantom' at a moment's notice. Her eyes keen for trouble, and her leadership respected by all. Her dedication is welcomed, but hardly reassuring to his wildest fears. His ideas imagining the worst despite his forced bravery. The one thing he fears most looming at his back and chaining him into stillness.

The notes drop and rise, writhing in a tantrum of unholy fantasy. The veil of the curtain parts away, revealing the cast as they move together in a ritualistic flow. The stage bedecked in flames, red and demonic, leaping high and flaring to life despite being only brushstrokes to cloth and paper. They cry out in condemned chorus, a melody of the Void. Their eyes glinting like sparks, but behind those lights are uncertainties and terror. The acts they have practiced for disturbing and, to them, depraved. It resonates within their voices.

"Here the sire may serve the dam. Here the master takes his meat. Here the sacraficial lamb utters one despairing bleat."

They center around Isabela who's skin is singed with anticipation. Past ready to be rid of this shadow cast over her. Holding her back from her passions and her life.

"Poor young maiden," she chimes in rhythm, "For the thrill of your tongue of stolen sweets. You will have to pay the bill, tangled in the winding sheets."

Her curves shift in a daunting flaunt, her exuberance personifying lust.

"Serve the meal and serve the maid," call the others, "Serve the master so that, when tables, plans, and maids are laid, Don Juan triumphs. Once again!"

They point away in their last screams of melody to a pair of men behind. Dancers prancing forward to twirl and dash in motion to the action. Moving with a passion to tempt the the men before them, tributes to sex permeating the theme of the opera. A demoralization of their usual class and refinement in their arts. Their breasts barely cradled in the chest of their gowns. A pitiful use of such beauty.

"Passarino, faithful friend," bellows Castillon to the other actor, "Once again repeat the plan."

His companion answers him singing, "Your guest believes I am you. I, the master. You, the man. When you met you wore my cloak. She could not have seen your face. She believes she dines with me, in her master's borrowed palace. Furtively we'll scoff and quaff, stealing what, in truth, is mine."

They move away to the very back of the stage.

"When it's late and modesty starts to mellow with the wine. You come home, I use your voice. Slam the the door like crack of doom. I shall say, 'come hide with me.' Where or where? 'Of course, my room!"

"Poor thing hasn't got a chance," muses Castillon, "Here's my hat, my cloak, and sword. Conquest is assured. If I do not forget myself and laugh."

He places on a mask, fashioned in the same leather, unwittingly, that his replacement will be wearing.

"Hahahaha!"

They disappear, Castillon leaving the stage entirely. Only to be overtaken by a dark form, his resistence shattering Anders' original hopes. Bringing his fiend to the surface and resulting in the man's doom.

Marianna saunters into view, her dress barely more appropriate, the fabric at her shoulders straining not to fall. She is a lovely sight, stirring a tingle in Fenris' skin. Although, he deeply wishes he were not sharing the sight with an entire audience. Her dignity on display for the 'Phantom's' sport.

"No thoughts within her head," her song darts from her tongue, "but thoughts of joy. No dreams within her heart, but but dreams of love!"

She spares a glance his way, her gaze careful.

In enters a man in cloak, stalking forward with ease.

"Master?"

The other actor left behind by Castillon questions the man that has entered their act.

"Passarino," utters the man.

The voice is wrong, the revelation starting a fire in Fenris' blood. They have been graced with the presence of their quary. But, he is not yet in place to spring the trap, and no one else seems aware of the difference. He must be patient for the right moment, or the elusive pretender will be off again. Slipping through the cracks and hunting Hawke still. He bides his time and holds his peace for the chance to truly stop him.

"Go away for the trap is set," he rumbles, "and waits for its prey."

The support actor walks away, his part finished.

Anders casts his eyes to his 'maiden', watching her tend to the thorns on a rose ahead of him as she listens for her signal.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge," he serenades gently, "In pursuit of a wish which until now has been silent."

Hawke looks back, eyes low, knowing who she faces.

"Silent," he prompts her, a sign to keep her tongue.

"I have brought you. That our passions may fuse and merge! In your mind you've already succumbed to me. Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me!"

He approaches her, steady and cautious. She turns away, playing into his charade as she must.

"Now you are here with me. No second thoughts. You've decided."

The melody changes, sultry but dangerous. A homage to a predator seeking. She stands to respond to his lure, leaving the rose, dropped, behind her.

"Past the point of no return. No backward glances. Our games of make believe are at an end."

Elthina moves to a better vantage point backstage, worried for the safety of her charge. Taking place next to Merrill. Watching the spectacle unfold with

savage glory.

"Past all thought of if or when," he breaches her aura, coming close to her side "No use resisting. Abandon thought and let the dream descend!"

He paces circles around her, as though poised to devour her at the bat of an eyelash.

"What raging fire shall flood the soul?"

He pounces, slipping behind her, a hand to her throat and arm about her waist. She swoons into the grip, her skin glossed with unintended heat but also scare. The sleeves of her draping fallen.

"What rich desire unlocks it's hold?"

Fenris can scarce watch, but his eyes remained locked. His teeth clamped in jealousy and rage. Anders' hands are unworthy he raves within, his temper unsettled by his rival touching what is his.

"What sweet seduction lies before us?"

The rhythm continues on, careless of his displeasure. Anders being content to let the man see, let Chagny seethe over the inability to stop his bid to woo her.

"Past the point of no return."

He turns her round, keeping her eyes from Fenris, forcing her focus to him as he takes her hand.

"The final threshold. What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?"

She hesitates, knowing the moment is nearly upon her, upon them, to sound the alarm. She pulls free, gently, stepping back.

"Beyond the point of no return..."

She lifts her voice in reply, the sound sharp at first. Her heart wild and furious in her bosom.

"You have brought me. To that moment when words run dry. To that moment when speech disappears into silence."

She gives the notes, her voice smooth again by the end. Her eyes reaching up to tell her lover she is making way for the finality of their plan. A reprieve for a mere breath for Fenris to witness, and he subtly gestures to Aveline who backs away out of view. A sign for both Varric and Donnic who take notice.

"Silence," she repeats, and her irises plummet, "I have come here. Hardly knowing the reason why. In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent."

Fenris has heard her rehearse this many times, but the sting of the false submission still gets to him. Her acting entirely believable, even to his gaze. She has focused on her pursuer, and is smiling in feigned confidence. Her portrayal lively and spiced with depth.

"Now I am here with you. No second thoughts. I've decided."

The change in harmony comes again.

"Past the point of no return. No going back now. Our passion play has now, at last, begun."

They walk together from the edge of the stage, eyes beaming.

"Past all thought of right or wrong. One final question. How long should we two wait before we're one? When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us?"

Fenris rises as they meet center stage. His rage nearly unbearable, his hurt an unfortunate side effect. They join in a duet, Anders holding her, feeling her. And she is accepting his touch, letting his hands trace her body with eyes shut and form trembling. The sacraficial lamb, indeed.

"Past the point of no return. The final threshold! The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn! We've passed the point of no return..."

The guards are closing in, Fenris hopes they will take the plunge soon. And save him and Marianna both from more of this torture.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime," Anders lulls in her ear softly, "Lead me, save me from my solitude."

His embrace has become more tender, loving. His hands in more comforting places.

"Say you want me with you, Here beside you," he moves her to face him, "Anywhere you go, let me go too."

In his irises is only Anders, the spirit pacified for but a moment. Only the boy remains clinging to her with desperation. And Fenris thinks, as she stands there with him cradling her, his song charming her with affection, that she has been swayed. And she will not set the trap in motion, but let herself be taken away. Stolen by her sympathetic mercies to a place that will take him too long to follow. And her fate will be sealed in this instant.

"Marianna, love me. That's all I ask of you..."

She strokes a hand to his cheek, tears welling and dripping down her beautiful face. But, her fingers pry from him his mask, springing the the plots made into action. The guards coming rushing for them, Aveline in the lead. Coming to her rescue, too late to do any good. He has been ready for this, his being all taken with the spectre in his bones. An all too familiar flash in his eyes.

The guards, both managers, Elthina, Merrill, and Fenris all gasp as he violently throws Marianna over his shoulder. Keeping his would be captors at bay with a ring of ice spikes that sprout from the stage at his command. He leaps through a trap door located mid stage, kept hidden by the faux fire pit used for the play. Upon landing far below, he burns apart a rope with a flare of magic, set there for his own devices. It starts a chain reaction that brings the theater's grand chandelier tumbling down on the audience, still bewildered in their seats. The people flee in terror, most make it away in time. But, the mighty collision starts a fire that spreads with haste.

Fenris is already on the move, on the hunt. It does not end here, he will not let it. He will not allow Hawke to be made an example of, to be subject to Anders' wrath.

"No! I will not allow it!"

He roars it as though it will grant him greater speed.

In the chaos people are trampled, screaming. Sebastian aids the band in escaping, making sure no one is left to suffer. Merrill and Elthina guide the cast away from the stage, and Isabela trips over Castillon in her flight. He has been strangled into a corpse, and she mourns him as she runs, unable to stop and grieve properly for the danger at her back. Guards have turned their attentions to evacuation, but struggle to direct the mass upheaval. Donnic grabs as many fallen patrons as he can, getting them back to their feet. And Varric rushes to open all exits and let the turmoil spill safely out onto the streets. All are depictions of a world that is apocalyptic, ending.

Fenris catches up with Madame Elthina, catching her as she darts away, the actors, actresses, dancers, and stage hands ahead.

"Where did he take her!"

He does not mean to be rough, but circumstance leaves him cold and desperate.

"Come with me, Messere," she answers with surprising patience, "I will take you to him."

He follows close on her heels, taking to her lead without question.

"Remember," she shouts as they go, "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

"I will go with you!"

Merrill appears behind them, her cry demanding.

"No, Merrill, no," Elthina gasps, halting to push her back, "You must stay here! Do as I say! No!"

Merril stops, staying where her mother tells her. But, only long enough for them to run out of sight before she takes off for the dressing room.

Hawke is not an easy hostage to drag away, she fights with no reservations. Calling up magic to cast her will against his. To no avail, he sets a spell of sleep over her before she can let loose her only means of defense. Once limp, she is easily hauled away to the vaults of the undertheatre, her calls now silent so she will not be easy to track by those that chase them.

However, the Viscount is not led by her voice, his path marked by a knowing lady who has known Anders' route through the labyrinths for many years. His ears do listen, wishing to know she still breathes but more attentive to Elthina's guidance. He will never make it if he keeps to his panic, never minding the advice so charitably given to him. So he gathers his courage and traces the way step by step. Gaining on the 'Phantom.'

When they get close, her footfalls cease, her expression apologetic. He turns to her, alerted by her pause.

"This is as far as I dare go," she sighs with a frown.

He gives her a nod of understanding, "Thank you."

He presses on, accepting that he faces the rest alone. And praying as he goes that this is not already a tragedy awaiting discovery. Waiting on him to find the end of everything that he's ever known and wanted. A memory lacing his thoughts to give him some peace of mind before he confronts his foe.

Little footprints left, pitted, in beach sand. A tiny hand in his. A beacon that steps before him, showing him the way. With a lullaby passed between them to abolish his anxiety. She had spent so long dreaming of the angels her father spoke of, she never realized she wore her own halo which kept her hair gold. Never noticed how she was a guardian and savior.

She is waking. Marianna opens her eyes to stare with bitterness at her warden to this prison he's brought her into. She braces herself up against the wall to stand, defiant, before Anders. Who is, once more, beating back the duality of his mind into the recesses of his skull.

"Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood? Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?"

Her voice has turned harsh at last, her amber irises nearly vindictive. Her patience and pity for him has all but run out, brought to ruin by his deeds.

Fenris, at last, arrives at the grate that keeps him from entering the lair of his rival. Donning dirt and covered in scrapes, but present. Instantly relighting Anders' eyes with turquoise and indigo, swirling in terrible glee. Just as was intended by the 'Phantom', his last victim has come.

"I think, my dear, we have a guest."

He opens the way, inviting his contender inside. And sealing him within as soon as he clears the gate. A smirk to his face when Fenris turns to find himself now caught with no way out again. Anders wraps an arm around Hawke, pinning her to his side.

"Let me go," she scoffs and squirms in his grip.

"Free her," growls Fenris, feeling for his sword.

It is not with him, he had forgotten it in his haste. And he knows this is a great misfortune, a fatal mistake. He can only hope the Maker is on his side and sends blessings. That, somehow, there might be a way to get through this.

Anders laughs, "Messere, I bid you welcome. Did you think that I would harm her? Why would I make her pay for the sins which are yours!"

He tosses his magic in a wave, like before slamming, Fenris to the grate behind him, stunning the Viscount. Shoving Marianna to the floor, he grabs a rope with precision and has Fenris bound to the bars in a blur. Wrapping a noose at his neck and threading it through his barbaric door. Hawke has recovered by that point, summoning her magic in response. But, a palm filled with lightning aimed to shock the life from her lover stills her. His spell would meet its mark long before she could even cast hers. Her inexperience with using magic as a weapon painfully clear.

"Order your fine horses now," he mocks, "Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! Nothing can save you now! Except, perhaps, Marianna..."

He peers at her over his shoulder, his hand never wavering or aim skewing.

"Start a new life with me. Buy his freedom with your love... Refuse me, and you send your lover to his death. This is the choice. This is the point of no return!"

She looks to Fenris with a face that has turned dreary, the warmth fading in her pain. A light drowning in misery, soon to be snuffed out if this cannot be resolved. That chill left in its absence is laid upon Anders.

"The tears I might have shed for your dark fate, grow cold and turn to tears of hate. You take and take, never do you give. You ask for pity, understanding, but give none!"

And Fenris does take pity, for Hawke who chooses despair no matter what decision she makes. His plan had been a good one, but he underestimated his adversary, and she is the one to truly suffer the consequences.

"I failed you, Marianna. Forgive me."

She shakes her head, gaze returning to his.

"No. It was me. Turning to a fallen idol and false friend."

In disgust for her insult, Anders pulls the rope tight in a show of power, closing his lungs to air. Incentive for his unfaithful bride to be. He would have his way, no matter which way he had to use to get it.

"So do you end your days with me? Or so you send him to his grave?"

Fenris scoffs through his choking, "Why make her lie to to you to save me?"

Hawke's weeping is hardly sound, her sobs the very same in agony as the ones that used to ring from Anders' once.

"Who deserves this?"

But Anders will not hear it, he cannot hear it. Buried so deep under everything. Lost.

"His life is now the prize which you must earn!"

The coil around Fenris is tightened further still.

"You deceived me..."

Whatever rant she had to unleash is let go. Her will fracturing apart, a touch away from shattering altogether.

"Make your choice," he snarls.

Fenris is slacking, his awareness faltering. Ebbing away from him like blood from an open wound. His state pathetic and subject to yet more torment as the line is pulled with tiny tugs. Constricting even more at his throat.

Marianna can bear no more. She looks to Fenris and nearly collapses to her knees. Her resignation deemed better, her surrender more satisfactory than watching him either suffocate to death or be ended with a bolt of unfathomable power. At least, this way, they both shall live. And peace will be restored to the people who have been wronged in this conflict. No more loss, no more loved ones put in the ground never to come home.

"Let him go," she offers Anders her eyes and, in earnest, draws close saying, "I will stay. You will not be alone."

She puts all that is left of her into the kiss that follows. Gives it all up for the good of the world. It is better this way, and she finds that, faint as it may be, she still pities Anders. She knows he is there somewhere, that he will always be fighting. And, maybe, with someone here to encourage and reach out to him, he may improve. Grow stronger and remain in control. He does not deserve these horrors anymore than any of them. He is not the spirit she embraces now, she knows.

Anders is called awake, the haze lifting. For the first time in a span of years the reality around him is clear. A burden missing from his spine. In the connection she has made with him he has found a new emotion that settles the tempest within, calming the hurricane always twisting. And reminding him of who he used to be. Before the ghost who took over. A healer, just like her, who prided himself with nurturing the sickly and bolstering the weak. And now, it is he who weeps, broken under all that he has done while not himself. He had become the very thing he despises. An opressor.

He drops the rope, the spell. Let's them fall from his blood soaked hands and stumbles away from her. Gasping for breath as though it were he who had been strangled.

"Forget me," he heaves in his remorse, "Leave me alone. Go now, don't let them find you!"

Hawke flies to Fenris, unbinding his throat and helping to hold him up as he catches his wind. Breaking the ties at his arms with a spark of fire magic and setting him free again. He rushes to hold her as soon as he can properly stand. Ever grateful for this one embrace, something he feared he would never have again.

the sounds of guards and pillagers can be heard filing through the tunnels. Coming to stop all the murders, to bring a swift end of justice. Surity that no one else falls here after.

Anders has slipped to the bed of velvet, enjoying the tune of his music box one last time. His smile bright in spite of his sadness, feeling more himself than ever. Hoping it will last. Everything is gone now, the glory of the theatre, his window to the world, and his only companion. Dear and very much cherished, even she never really knew who he was. And now, never will. But, in such endings, maybe there are also new beginnings. He may never know.

He finds himself glancing up as an aura brushes his, his golden eyes finding Hawke there. Silently watching, her kindness and mercy fresh and new. Restored by his intervention to stay his hand and let her live. Truly live.

"Marianna, I love you."

His actions have spoken louder, and she believes it. She brings to him a gift, which she lays with care in his palm, curling his fingers closed around it. It is her locket, a treasure she recieved from her father. A symbol of unending love. With a squeeze, she releases him, turning to leave. But, with a soft smile, and he knows he will not be forgotten. There will always be some small space or so in her heart just for him, even if she does not view him as a lover. Her heart was taken before their time together, but that one portion was saved. Just for him.

Anders trails after her, watching her and Fenris leave together. It is the right thing to do, and he circles round and goes to a mirror when he cannot see them in the distance. An eluvian, one of many throughout this maze. He passes through it, stepping into the unknown that is now his future.

In the wake of his departure, Merrill and the guards finally arrive. The mob straight behind. They search to find nothing, save a music box discarded on the floor among odd novelties. No Phantom, or man, or anyone. Merrill bends down to pick up the melody box, taking it with her as she continues on.


	7. Encore

The air is cooling, turning with winter's approach. But it is not biting yet, no true threat of frost. And two fine young gentlemen with hair of gold and sunshine help an old Viscount, greyed with age, walk down the aisles of the cemetary. Slow and steady, without complaint. The elder one's sons.

They come to bask in the presence of a tombstone together, the resting place of one who is much beloved. His wife and their mother, Marianna. This is her designated grave, her final bed.

Fenris ensures it is always covered in flowers, always brighter than the drab sorrow that blankets the other tombs. She had far too much life for such colorless formalities. And they kneel in her honor, placing a fresh bouquet and a harmonious gift. The music box Merrill had taken, and given sweetly to Fenris for Hawke. A detail of the past Marianna had never forgotten, as she had never forgotten the 'Phantom' as they all knew she never would.

But, she had, at last, made peace with the past that day when their love was spared. And her loyalty had never wandered from her childhood love, never departed even after her death. He feels it always as a candle burning in his chest, as do his sons.

Anders had never been seen again, never been heard from or had killed again. All at once, it was merely as though he disintegrated into nothing, just vanished into air and became one with the Void. And his muse was left in peace to end her days beside her lover. Although Fenris still bears his grudges, he is also very grateful for that. His respect had been hard earned, yet, exists none the less.

He places the box gently at her headstone, running a palm across the grooves of her name and placing a kiss to the tiny portrait of her above it. His eyes fall to seek out debris that has come to disturb her sleep and clear it away. But, his gaze catches on something in his search.

A rose red as blood, black ribbon secured to the stem. And lashed to that ribbon a locket. Her locket, which had been missing for decades. A symbol of unending love. A sign that the 'Phantom' never forgot her either. Fenris lets the tribute remain.


End file.
